Royce Townsend, MD and JP, looked me up and down, and a furrow appeared between his eyes. "From the monastery?" His voice was surprisingly deep for such a small man.

"Yes," I said. "I particularly wanted to talk with Sister John Roberta-"

"You've missed her," he said brusquely, still frowning. "You aren't by any chance staying in the cottage by the river?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. Why do you ask?"

"Because I recognize you. You were messing around down at the river Saturday afternoon. I was having some target practice up on the cliff and-"

I sucked in my breath. "You're the one who shot at me!"

"I did not shoot at you," he said with some dignity. He balanced on the balls of his feet. "I was sighting in my new rifle and heard you screaming-your hysteria was quite unnecessary, I might add-and glanced down and saw

you." His voice became petulant. "I must say, Ms. Bayles, you were never in any danger."

"How was I supposed to know that?" I retorted.

He smiled thinly. ' 'My brother and father and I use that cliff quite frequently for target practice. I suggest that you stay clear of our range, particularly on weekends. I don't enjoy treating gunshot wounds, especially on my day off." He turned on his heel and walked away.

I was angry enough to go after him, but the nurse put a restraining hand on my arm. "It won't help," she said in a half-whisper. "He'll never admit he's wrong. Whatever you say to him is like water off a duck's back. Better just forget it."

Forget it? I wished I could. But it wasn't just anger that made my face burn. I knew now that I had been wrong on two counts. Dwight hadn't shot at me, and he hadn't set the fires. I had accused an innocent man.

Some detective I was.

Of course, Dwight wasn't innocent of the theft of Mother Hilaria's journal, I reminded myself as I parked the truck in front of Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church. But that recollection didn't do much to redeem my self-esteem. When I got back to the monastery, I'd have to let Mother Winifred know that I'd been wrong. Worse yet, I'd have to tell her that the arsonist was still at large. That was the worrisome part, of course. So far, the fires had been small ones, but what if a little fire got out of control?

And now tiiat I knew Dwight wasn't involved, there was something else I had to consider-a possible connection between the fires and the letters. The fire in the chapel had burned Dominica's guitar. Last night's fire had destroyed Miriam's painting. There was a link here, and it was on my mind as I went to look for Father Steven.

The church, which stood on one corner of the square, was a narrow, white-painted frame building with stained-glass windows down both long sides, four steps up to a pair

of double doors in front, and a steeple on top. I followed the path around the building to a gray stucco cottage behind a privet hedge. A ceramic goose planter filled with frost-killed marigolds sat by the front door, and on the grimy stucco wall beside the door hung a cross made out of cholla cactus. Under it was a handprinted sign with sloping letters that announced that Father Steven Shaw lived there. Father Steven, who had been present at last night's fire.

The priest still had traces of sleep on his eyelids when he answered the door. The ugly, wrinkled scar on his face extended up the side of his neck and across the left side and top of his head. His hair grew patchily, I guessed, and he had shaved his head bald. He was quite tall and very thin, almost emaciated. He was wearing a striped pajama top, drawstring cotton pants, and corduroy house slippers. Over his pajamas he had drawn the sweater he'd worn last night, which still bore the acrid odor of burning rags.

"China Bayles?" he repeated, when I introduced myself. He had a thin, high voice that sounded curiously off-key. He rubbed one eye with the back of his hand. "Oh, yes. China Bayles. You're the one Mother Winifred asked to look into the fires." His eyes narrowed. "Do you know what happened last night?"

He obviously didn't recognize the woman he had helped to pull the chair off the porch. "I was there," I said. And so were you, I reminded myself silently. You were present at all the other fires too.

"The whole thing is horrible." His nostrils flared. "I hope you'll be able to stop… whoever it is."

"I wonder if I might talk to you, Father. About the fires, and another matter."

He stepped back, reluctantly, I thought. "I suppose you'd better come in, then."

I followed him to the kitchen, where he motioned me to a chair at the kitchen table while he hunted for a clean coffee cup. He found one in the dish drainer, then ransacked the cupboard for instant coffee, which he finally

discovered in the refrigerator freezer. After another search, he located the kettle on top of the refrigerator and the matches behind an open loaf of bread on the cluttered counter. I was glad I'd already had coffee. It might be a little while before this cup was ready.

"Things are rather a mess," he said, striking a match under the kettle. "My housekeeper had her seventh baby on Saturday, and I'm eating my meals at Bernice's." He glanced at the full sink, and I could read the distaste on his face.

I was tempted to suggest that there were several surefire ways to ensure that the housekeeper was always around to cook and wash up, but my recommendations would almost certainly reveal that I was on the devil's side of the birth control question. I made a noncommittal noise.

Father Steven began searching in the refrigerator and emerged with a pint of half-and-half. He sniffed it, made a face, and threw it in the garbage. "I doubt you'll discover anything about the fires. The arsonist is clever." He returned to the cupboard once more.

"I was surprised to see you there," I remarked. "Wasn't it a little late to look for a book?"

He shrugged. "Not really. I frequently suffer from insomnia, and when I do, I go for a drive. In fact, I was only a few miles from St. T's when I realized that I had left the book in the sacristy. I was just leaving when I heard the bell." He put a jar of powdered creamer on the table and sat in the opposite chair.

I was watching him closely. His eyes were hooded, and the twist of his scarred mouth seemed bitterly sardonic. But that aside, there was nothing in his face that revealed whether he was telling the truth or not.

I changed the subject abruptly. "Mother Winifred has also asked me to look into the five poison-pen letters."

He pulled his brows together. "Five? Perpetua, Anne, Dominica, Miriam-" He glanced at me. "You know something I don't."

Mother Hilaria received one as well."

•"Hilaria?" The priest's surprise seemed totally genuine. I he were the letter-writer and this was an act, it was a good one. "What was she accused of?"

"I can't tell you, because I haven't seen the letter. I can't:ell you what her penance was, either." 'Her… penance?"

" "The letter-writer demanded a public penance of each of ±e sisters. Perpetua complied. The other three refused. Soon after, each of them lost something important to them."

His eyes were watching me, unreadable. "You're suggesting that the letter-writer… that she is exacting a penance?"

I nodded. "The only way to stop her is to reveal her identity." I gave him a direct look. "Do you know who she is?"

"No, although I…" He shook his head. "What is said during confession is between the penitent and God."

Client-counselor privilege. I knew all about it. I took the roster out of my purse and unfolded it. "I'm not asking for privileged information, Father. This is a list of the forty sisters at St. Theresa's. Can you point to any who might be able to help me?"

He tightened his lips, and his mouth took on a grotesque twist. "I don't think so." The words came out almost in a squeak.